Literacy+Reflections

//Layers Of My Literacy// //Holly Kimble// Mom’s soft voice reading bedtime stories, Tucked next to my sister Joleen. //Mother Goose, Dr. Seuss, Adam, and Jesus,// A blend of first-told stories from printed pages. The journey continued with letters and sounds. A phonics reading program, “Mr. M. with a Munching Mouth”. Letters created words; I could spell H-O-L-L-Y. Days and evenings spent reading, hearing the voice of language, Mom, I say thank you.

With knowledge of letters, I embarked to school. Letters became words, words became sentences, and sentences became stories. Reading was a light; illuminating adventure, emotion, and fantasy. By eight, I received//, Little House in the Big Woods//, my mind was a sponge. I was part of the Ingalls family; experiencing the trials and joys of pioneer life. Nancy Drew, Hardy Boys, Anne of Green Gables, all digested by an absorbing mind. Friends and family who purchased books, I say thank you.

Sitting at the kitchen table on February and March nights, Recording the births of calves: dates, heifers or bulls, and birth moms. My small black book propped next to my dad’s cattle record book. A small, third grade hand printing information next to thick, calloused hands. Patient, a treasured moment for me to always remember you by, Dad, I say thank you.

Reading and writing book reports, practicing cursive by third grade. //Chronicles of Narnia// unraveled by Mrs.Wohlers after lunch recess. Writing stories from word banks, sharing out loud, Spelling bees, geography bees, classifying plants, Egyptian culture, Revolutionary War, math facts, states capitals, broadening my view of the world. Mrs. Wohlers, my only grade school teacher, I say thank you.

Varied voices, contributors to my childhood. Foundation formed, a start to my literacy, Layers of my literacy, equally important. I take all of it with me. I age. I grow. I pass my voice on…………..

Literacy Mary DeVries

Snuggled next to security Wearing clean flannel pjs The magic would begin Mother reading a book. Not even a memory More of an impression Those moments come On cold winter nights

When did I not read Mom told me once At three I pointed to words In the papers from my books

Another moment unbidden comes The illustration from a book The title long forgotten Dark haired Lupe remains

Only child of older parents In the hours away from school Books became my companions Doors to people and places

To read is to be literate The experts often say Surely it is more than this If so. I was literate too young

Literate has to be more Understanding must be part of it Recognizing words cannot be all For my part I reject that idea.

Life etched my soul, altered me Words took on new meaning Understanding made words ring New truths and new depths formed

When did I become literate? Was it with the first word read? Was it was it with my writing? Am I truly literate yet?

Reflections on Literacy Shelley Addis They came to town in the ivory Dodge every Friday after dinner to do their trading. Some time later I would think about the use of that word and assume it came from a time in their lives when goods and services were bartered at the general store for the needs and wants of their families or those of an ancestor they had heard tales of. These trading afternoons found the couple at the I.G.A. Foodliner picking up everything she had listed to make it through the following week. I doubt there was much spontaneous spending, if any. Even the three Golden books that were purchased with as much regularity as the Gold Medal flour for her baking or the Pepsi-Cola to satisfy his thirst for sweet, were well planned and an ongoing inventory was kept. Only occasionally did they deviate from the customary routine, substituting brand new Big Chief tablets paired with pencils for the treasured books. There was nothing impulsive about this plan, for it was carefully designed to encourage education and a love for learning, a focus of my grandparents for their three young grandchildren. Aside from a strong religious background and sense of family, there was nothing more important and it shaped the model they provided. It is very likely that this is where my journey toward literacy began. "Lit˙er˙ate"- By the dictionary’s definition, we learn we can use this as an adjective to describe someone who is ‘able to read and write’. Someone who is literate may be ‘knowledgeable’, having a good understanding of a particular subject. Additionally, a literate person is recognized as ‘well-educated and well-read’. I fit these descriptives. However, when scrolling down to the fourth entry on the page, I have to pause. Although I am inclined to believe myself a literate person, ‘skillfully written’ does not adequately represent my perceived level of writing but, more appropriately, labels the goal I have set for myself as a writer. So, although I am ‘somebody capable of reading and writing’ and have an ‘extensive education’ relative to that of many, I may not have earned the full blown title of ‘literate’ by my own definition. Using terms familiar to my practice, perhaps I am an ‘emerging’ or “developing”, even a ‘capable’ literate. The quest for literacy begins when the desire to read and write is first experienced and applied. It can be observed in a child who benefits from a strong academic model or the child who has no exposure at all. It may surface in an English language learning adult or the at-risk adolescent struggling with developmental skills. Constantly evolving as a lifelong learner, I am more literate this year than last, more literate today than yesterday and, certainly, more literate than the child who waited for the Friday afternoon deliveries from her grandparents years ago. It is an ongoing process.

Floods of Memories Julie Johnson A young, energetic mother swoops her daughters, ages four and five, into her arms and the threesome settles into the soft cushions of the living room couch for a read aloud. Sometimes she reads one book, other times an entire stack. Her daughters’ journeys to becoming literate began early; she made sure of that. One particular warm, July evening, twenty years later, this mother’s mind becomes flooded with memories of how her middle child, Julie, became a reader, writer, communicator, and ultimately, a literate being. Julie’s journey was much different from her older sister’s (who was reading //Little House on the Prairie// in kindergarten), yet filled with vivid images all its own; images of a child who desired not only to read and write herself, but to teach others too. Mother smiles as she recalls a summer afternoon on the family farm when Julie was no where to be found. After a little searching, Mother finds her daughter in an old, barren out-building on the edge of the property which hadn’t seen a human soul in years. The daughter is meticulously placing layers of bricks in a rectangular pattern beneath a window. “What are you doing, Julie dear?” Mother asks. “I’m making a couch for reading. This is my school house! Dad is helping me—we’re going to have two desks. One for the teacher and one for little brother Jarrod. He’s going to come to school and I am going to teach him!” Mother turns and leaves the scene, her wheels turning. She returns shortly, two, tattered, embroidered pillows in hand. A smile washes across Julie’s face and she carefully adorns the hard, brick couch with the gift. Her schoolhouse is complete and open for business. Jarrod did attend this school every day during the summer months, reading on the brick couch and practicing phonics at his desk. Julie drilled the ABCs into his head; Mother was not sure who was prouder upon his perfect recitation—Jarrod or his teacher, Julie. Her mind leaves the schoolhouse scene and drifts to the public library. Wanting her children to have plenty of books on hand at all times, she would drop her blonde-headed angels off at the library door while she ran errands. The library was a fine babysitter—the places it could take her kids! Magical. Mother smiles as she recollects the times Julie and her sister would sit at the dining room table, scrounging through old Sears catalogues, looking for the perfect models for their creative stories. The girls spent hours scribbling words on pages, forming fiction pieces to share with the family. Her eyebrows turn downward, deep in concentration. Is Julie’s written and illustrated story //Karrie, the Sparklers, and Me// still tucked carefully away in the basement? Julie spent hours her sixth grade year pouring her heart and soul into that masterpiece, a story about popularity verses true friendship. “I need to dig that out again and read it,” Mother whispers. What happened in middle school, high school, and college? Her daughter who loved books and dreamed up stories was no longer reading and writing for personal enjoyment. Trips to the local library were less frequent. She supposes that time for such activities became invaded with other pressing issues, such as music lessons, track practice, school assignments, and later on, work. Mother grins as she remembers what brought the joyous gift of reading back to her daughter. During Julie’s student teaching, she accepted a job at Circle Middle School teaching Communications. Wanting her students to either enhance or develop a passion for reading, Mother watched Julie become a reader again herself. She desired to be a model for her students and became up-to-date with young adult literature. In addition to this type of reading, Mother also knows that her daughter spends hours reading professional material, wishing to be the best teacher she can be. Memories fade, and Mother is brought back to present day. These floods of reminiscences urge Mother to call her daughter. She picks up the phone and dials. . . before punching the last digit, she hangs up, remembering that Julie is not yet home from the Kansas Writing Project. Lately, it seems like all Julie does is write. She’s been so busy that she doesn’t call anymore. Then Mother’s eyes brighten. “This is it!” she says to herself, “Julie’s interest in writing is being kindled by that class. Her previously shelved passion for writing is emerging once again.” A content mother returns to the couch, closes her eyes, and gives thanks for her daughter’s journey to becoming a literate being. But does that journey ever end?

The Journey of Literacy Shea McGuire A literate person is one that not only has the capability to read but is able to understand and think critically about what was read. Literacy also includes written communication. Varying degrees of literacy exists in both reading and writing. While some people may read __Reader’s Digest__, others may gravitate toward the classics such as Shakespeare or other great bodies of work. A majority of us write out of necessity and few write for enjoyment of writing itself. I consider myself to be in the middle of the continuum in both areas. My journey towards literacy began many years ago during first grade. The pictures and words are engraved in my mind. Buffy, a large black and white panda and his companion, Mack, a caramel colored rabbit, became my familiar friends as we traveled together through the pages of __Good Morning Sun__. Memories of Dick, Jane and Spot mingled with Dr. Seuss. Although I have these memories, I don’t remember the exact moment that I learned to read but I have always enjoyed reading. Throughout childhood there have been many stepping stones in the road of literacy. Writing is one of my earliest memories. I remember the practice of writing my name. Thanks to my mom, I think that I had one of the longest names in kindergarten. During the second grade I memorized a poem so my teacher allowed me to recite it to Mrs. Rainey’s class (She was my first grade teacher). A sense of pride was felt with this accomplishment. Sometimes at the end of the school year teachers would give away discarded workbooks and worksheets. This provided many activities for the school that I would play with my sisters and cousins. At the age of ten, __Charlotte’s Web__ was one of the first chapter books that I had ever read. It was one of about a hundred or so books that I received from one of my mom’s friends. My friends and I were allowed to walk to the library during the summer months. I enjoyed their vast selection of books for young adults. A lot of time was spent writing songs with my cousins. We would spend hours coming up with possible lyrics. I still remember the chorus to our song, True Love. Most of my reading for enjoyment took place during the summer. Many nights were passed as I was beckoned by the pages of various novels. Before I knew it the sun’s rays were dawning and I was just getting to the good part. As I grew older my favorite genre became horror and suspense. During high school I was fortunate enough to have an awesome Spanish teacher. This class actually helped with my English because we had to know the parts of speech in order to form grammatically correct sentences. I was on my way to becoming literate in a second language. Because of the great experiences that I had in high school I was able to receive ten hours of credit when I went off to college. Learning to read and compose in another language was challenging, but I enjoyed it so it was a worthwhile activity. Unfortunately as I become an adult, these spellbinding moments were replaced by other responsibilities, ones that did not allow time for detours through the pages for fun but were required by the “powers that be”. My journey had halted. I no longer had time to delve into the topics that interested me; there were a few exceptions, of course. There are moments when I do get some time read or write but those times are rare. Thanks to the South Central Kansas Writing Project I have dedicated more time to writing. I now find myself resuming the journey.